


Eighteenth

by isitandwonder



Series: Sherlock Advent Calendar [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kind of coming out, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:57:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5452520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You haven't told them, have you?” Sherlock finally asked.<br/>“Told them what?” John stalled.<br/>“Now you are intentionally obtuse, which is rather insulting.”</p>
<p>John's parents come round for dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eighteenth

All the way back from the surgery John had thought about how to break the news to Sherlock. It wasn't actually bad news - well, not entirely – but as John had no idea how Sherlock would react, it was especially hard to form a strategy.

He still hadn't decided how to go about the whole business when he arrived at Baker Street. Upon entering the flat, however, he was greeted by a violently reeking smell and spent the next hour alternately yelling at Sherlock for exploding their microwave while boiling eyeballs in it, scraping the residue of said organs from various surfaces including the ceiling and removing microwave-scrap-metal-turned-shrapnel from Sherlock's back.

Finally, after finishing above listed tasks, he was so fed up with his flatmate that he had no energy left to come up with an elaborate method of persuasion and just blurted out: “Sherlock, what the fuck...?! How shall I explain an incident like this to my parents?”

“Why would you need to?” Despite his obvious discomfort because of his lacerated back Sherlock sounded rather detached, as if already prodding a new test, perhaps involving gallbladder.

“Because they'll be in town next weekend and as it happens to be a few days before Christmas, they want to come around and visit … me, which means, well … us … as in _me … and … you_.” John huffed, then sank down onto a freshly scrubbed kitchen chair.

“Oh!” Sherlock uttered surprised.

“ _Oh_ indeed.” John felt defeated and dispirited.

“No, I mean, it's unexpected but I'm sure we'll be able to properly entertain your parents for an evening.”

“By exploding our household appliances or by cooking human intestines?”

“I don't think your parents would be thrilled by either.”

“Nice deduction, genius.”

Sherlock looked at John for a whole minute, unblinking, which was extremely disconcerting.

“You haven't told them, have you?” he finally asked.

“Told them what?” John stalled.

“Now you are intentionally obtuse, which is rather insulting.”

John snorted, then looked away, still refusing to answer Sherlock's question.

“Are you ashamed?” Sherlock inquired hesitantly in an unfamiliar low voice.

John nearly choked and eventually glanced over at Sherlock, who was gazing down at the still wet linoleum, studying it in rapt fascination.

“No,... god, _no_!” With two swift strides John crossed the space between them, totally disregarding leaving marks on the recently scrubbed floor, hugging Sherlock tight until the taller man winced due to the pressure applied to the fresh wounds on his back by two strong hands holding him.

“Sorry, I'm so sorry.” John knew he wasn't just apologising for thoughtlessly brushing over Sherlock's lesions but also for his apparently insensitive comments before. “Of course not.” He gently kissed Sherlock's temple and held him carefully a little while longer.

“Then what's all the fuss about?” Sherlock entangled himself a bit to look into John's face, as if he expected to find a vital clue there as to this supposedly sentimental issue totally beyond his otherwise allegedly superior comprehension.

“It's just ... I don't know, perhaps I'm a total twat but they are... old and… rather conventional. I have no idea how to explain all of this to them” - this remark was accompanied by a sweeping gesture, taking in their partly destroyed kitchen, the rest of the cluttered flat, as well as John's slightly dishevelled and incredulous lover - “and by that I don't just mean the two of us shagging. I mean my whole... lifestyle with you.” John concluded.

“Haven't you told them … anything?”

“I'm not sure if you’ve recognised but we are not especially close.” Off course, regarding Sherlock's rather disturbed family life, the Watson family could be called the epitome of domestic bliss.

Sherlock sat down at the table and let his eyes roam the place. He took in the human skull on the mantle-piece, sitting next to his jack knife pinning unpaid bills in place; the desk and sofa, littered with papers, manila folders and crime scene photos; the improvised murder wall above the couch, displaying notes and images concerning their latest case (serial rapist, quite nasty).

Sherlock wasn't sure when Mrs. Hudson had cleaned and hoovered the last time but, judging by the eloquent dust covering most horizontal surfaces, it must have been a while. And then, finally, there was him, 6 ft. 1 of eccentric consulting detective, currently clad in blood stained pyjama bottoms, safety goggles, band aids and nothing else.

He started to see John's point. If he imagined his mother inspecting his digs, he felt the overwhelming urge to run for the hills, despite her being aware of his spleens as well as his sexual involvement with the resident army doctor.

“You could take them to a restaurant,” Sherlock offered, sounding rather intimidated.

“No, I can't...” John's voice was firm.

Sherlock interceded quickly. “I mean, if you don't have enough money at your disposal right now, I could...” But now it was John's turn to cut him short.

“Sherlock, stop it! Are you daft? Do you honestly think I will hide you, like a little dirty fling on the side? You are the best thing that ever happened to me. You are the love of my life. Perhaps it's about time to tell my parents. What'd you reckon?”

Sherlock beamed at John. “I'd be delighted.”

John bowed down and kissed him, long and sweet, before whispering against slightly parted lips: “Just promise me you'll behave.”

Sherlock's smile widened. “Or what...?” he purred.

“Or we'll invite your family round for Christma, and that's to include your brother.”

Sherlock pulled back, an expression of pure abhorrence displayed on his angular features.

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he vowed, sounding grave and serious.

“God boy. Now, anything in for dinner? I'm starving.”

As John opened the door of the fridge, he was greeted by a chopped off human head (male), sitting on a plate where this morning still had been their crisper compartment.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!”

“Take away?”

“Definitely. And you’ll pay!”

\--------------------------------

In the end, the evening turned out quite pleasantly. Sherlock had cooked – who'd known? The man was full of surprises – serving salad, lasagne (so good nobody suspected it to be vegetarian, so this argument was elegantly circumvented) and a trifle for dessert that John's mother actually praised for its fluffiness.

Also, Sherlock had straightened the place up a bit while John had been at work: The papers were piled up on the desk in the living room,and the photos of naked strangled women had been neatly tucked away. Even the fridge held only groceries. John had no idea where the severed head had gone but didn't dare to ask. There were even fresh towels in the bathroom. Sherlock's efforts were actually quite touching and John swore to himself to reward him properly later.

During dinner, Sherlock kept unusually quiet, mostly giving monosyllable answers or none at all but instead asking questions in return. His inquiries got his parent's talking, while John noticed that Sherlock tried to tone down his rather posh accent – at least compared to the broad northern dialect his parents were speaking.

When dinner was finished, Sherlock even offered to do the dishes and John's mother announced she would join him. John and his father relocated to the sitting room.  


His father took in all the stuff accumulated there – books in various languages, the microscope, a chess board on the coffee table - before lowering himself carefully in John's chair.

“So, this is where you live now?” he asked his son.

“Yes.” John sat down opposite his dad, occupying Sherlock's chair.

“Nice place.”

“Thank you.”

“Nice fella, too.”

John laughed, then looked away. “Yes, quite.”

”You and him … having it off then?”

John nearly choked on his own spit, blushing all over. “Dad! Seriously... is it that obvious?” It wasn't as if Sherlock and he had been holding hands or kissing or… _whatever_ in front of his parents.

“Quite. Despite, I'm not a sanctimonious old geezer. My daughter is a lesbian, mind. So, I take you flushing all over as a yes, then.”

John couldn't stifle a grin. “Well, yes. Problem?”

“As he seems polite, educated, and reasonably well off, no.” Mr Watson looked his son up and down. “Honestly, even if he weren't… as long as you are happy, it's fine with me… us. And happy you are. I haven't seen you this gleeful since before Afghanistan. Though, I don't know how your mother will cope without grandchildren to fuss about...” He trailed of, staring into space.

John swallowed hard. “Look, dad, I'm sorry...”

“Don't be. No use shaming. Ruins everything. I just wished you'd told us.” He fell silent, then suddenly smiled. “So, how's your work going?”

John took that as a cue to stir their talk back into emotionally less dangerous realms and started to chat about his work at the surgery.

\---------------------------------------------

About half an hour and some cups of coffees later, John's mother – who'd joined the lads in the sitting room after finishing cleaning up with Sherlock – exclaimed that they should get going, as it was approaching eleven. Sherlock called them a cab to take them to their hotel and both John and Sherlock went down to see them off. Before climbing into the taxi, John's father hugged his son and squeezed Sherlock's arm but John's mother embraced both of them, reminding John to call and taking Sherlock to task to remind her son of that. As the cab pulled away from the curb, John's mother turned in her seat and waved good bye, while John slid his arm around the waist of a slightly puzzled consulting detective.

Upon entering their flat, John sank back against the door, giggling hysterical.

“My dad knows,” he gasped between bursts of laughter. “And approves. He regards you quite a catch, to be honest.”

“As does your mother, by the way.” Sherlock retorted.

“Really?” John asked, slightly taken aback.

“Apparently, we are quite transparent to your parents. Your mother even warned me of your sister's rather revengeful nature. _'Break his heart and she'll break your legs'_ , she announced.”

John couldn't believe it.

“Well, thank you for… everything.” John leaned in and kissed Sherlock, conveying his appreciation for his affable behaviour during the evening. “I know this wasn't easy for you.“

Sherlock pressed John up against the wall. “As long as my promised reward matches my efforts, I'm not one to argue.”

John ground back against him. “Anything you want, love. Now that we are kind of engaged...”

He was silenced by Sherlock fiercely kissing him.


End file.
